She still trusted him.
That was never the problem.
Beatrice’s throat tightened.
It was absurd to resent his absence. It was worse than absurd. It was unfair.
But the fact remained that some light inside her seemed to have gone out, and she could not decide whether it had been her premature exit from London that had extinguished it—or Gideon’s absence.
A bit of both, perhaps.
And now, it seemed, she’d live her life as she’d intended. As a spinster.
A woman with purpose. Independence. Work that mattered. A woman who did not wait by windows for a man who had, quite reasonably, taken her at her word.
Across the hall, Dash kissed Ambrosia’s gloved hand.
Beatrice looked away.
NO RSVP
Gideon had decided not to attend.
There were two excellent reasons to remain in London.
The first was Beatrice.
She had all but ordered him out of her life, and for once, he had attempted to do as she asked.
The second was Groby.
Rumors surrounding the man’s claim had grown more troubling by the day. Some said his evidence was stronger than anyone had first believed. Strong enough, perhaps, to win.
But Parliament was on break, and for the moment, there was little Gideon could actually do.
Watch. Inquire. Wait.
All three had begun to feel useless.
His inquiries into the Ashcombe masquerade had stalled as well. Worse than stalled. The list of gentlemen who had attended five years ago had not narrowed. It had grown. Every new name made the answers feel farther away, and without more from Beatrice, Gideon had nothing solid enough to act upon.
So was his presence truly required in London?
The Season was over. Most of the debutantes had returned to their families’ country estates. For the moment, he no longer had to watch every terrace door and dark corridor, wondering which of Mayfair’s very fine gentlemen meant to ruin some innocent girl before supper.
And with Beatrice gone from town, the mutterings about her interference had gone quiet.
That ought to have reassured him.
It did not.
Silence was not safety. He knew that now.
The danger had not vanished simply because the ballrooms had emptied. It would move elsewhere—to garden paths, country lanes, house parties, inns, anywhere decent people looked away and called it manners.
And Beatrice had understood that before he had.
For all her recklessness, all her fury, all her maddening refusal to be sensible in any manner he approved of, she had seen the problem clearly. The way it cloaked itself in rank, propriety, and charm—and relied upon no one daring to name it.
